


Ink stick

by Toastedbuckwheat



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Kinda Fluffy, M/M, vague description of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26536609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toastedbuckwheat/pseuds/Toastedbuckwheat
Summary: (Just wanted to quickly write the thing @mimimarilynart and I chatted about - there's probably a lot of mistakes haha.)Have some more reborn Maeglin/Ecthelion. Much softer than last time!
Relationships: Ecthelion of the Fountain/Maeglin | Lómion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30





	Ink stick

**Author's Note:**

> (Just wanted to quickly write the thing @mimimarilynart and I chatted about - there's probably a lot of mistakes haha.) 
> 
> Have some more reborn Maeglin/Ecthelion. Much softer than last time!

He is about to mount his horse when he feels a gentle tug on the pouch attached to his belt, and eventually an embrace from behind stops him from moving forward. Somewhat hesitantly Maeglin places his hands on the layered sleeves covering the arms around him - he is scared that either his fingers or his clothes, although not yet soiled by travel, could dirty the sheer outer robe of fine white linen.

From beneath the fabric two hands clutch lightly onto his stomach. Unable to feel their familiar cool through the studded leather, Maeglin finds them with his own and squeezes them gently, as if he was seeking confirmation of their reality, making a mental mould of their shape.

Ecthelion’s breath is warm in his hair. 

Slowly, within the limits of the embrace, Maeglin turns around to complete yet another silent farewell. His lover’s face is bright, features sharp despite the early hour; his gaze skips between Maeglin’s eyes, his prominent bottom lip, the spot where a single star-shaped stud is missing from the black leather, the pouch which he was not quick enough to close.

Maeglin looks up at him, and Ecthelion gives him the most precious of smiles.

‘Ride safe.’ - He says simply before letting go. 

The fog begins to disperse as the sun rises above the hills, away from Ecthelion’s home. The fields look dark and bare after the autumn sowing - they will greet him with green upon his return from the deep woods of Oromë. There, in comforting shade, Maeglin has been spending his winters - alone, but in proximity to the reborn Avari. Each year his stark lodge requires repairs after months of staying uninhabited: his thoughts need no help to flow steadily as he gathers soft moss for a new pallet, replaces rotten beams and remakes rusty hinges. Salted meat will soon dry hanging in the coldroom of his making, and the coals will glow red in his workshop: Maeglin thinks as his horse carries him away from the buzz of the market squares, from their friends' laughter and wine spilled over unfinished game of chess, from the sliding screens leading to his lover’s bedroom.

In the city of Tirion, Ecthelion will sit by his small ebony table and pour tea into a single cup. 

He will visit his family on the outskirts, watch his father patiently file hard jade into desired shape - the art which Ecthelion was never passionate enough to learn. Father gave Maeglin an archer’s ring of a pale, cloudy variety, and few springs later the youth swore he had never missed the aim when wearing it: the look on his face when he received the gift was something Ecthelion cherished as one of the happiest memories.

Once they managed to trick him into singing, his sisters will be kind enough not to point out that - although an untrained ear might miss it - his voice sounds different when subtly flavoured by longing. 

Maeglin breathes out in relief as he watches the sun struggle to pierce through the crowns of the trees. The only sound beside the steps of his horse is the clear chirping of birds; he brings his hands to his mouth and mimics their singing, smiling to himself whenever he gets a reply.

He taught Ecthelion once - his voice might have been the most beautiful in Gondolin, but it needed practice to copy a bird’s song. He remembered the way his lover looked down smiling, thrilled by _not being the best at something for once_ , by Maeglin’s patient teaching, by the way their differences fitted together.

Right now, Ecthelion must be sitting in his study, reading documents or replying to letters. Maeglin can imagine the way he looks in cold daylight diffused by the paper screens to the perfect level of softness. He can feel the pace of his elbow movements as Ecthelion makes shapely characters flow right off the tip of his brush. 

In the middle of the woods Maeglin only has an icy creek to hypnotise him. 

It took him time to realise that his presence in Ecthelion’s workspace has never been bothersome. Their overlapping silence proved to be enjoyable for both - and Maeglin found himself little tasks that first served to justify his lingering in the study, and eventually grew to become yet another of their subtle forms of intimacy. Without looking up, Ecthelion would slide the ink stone towards this unexpected assistant of his; this has been their custom since that one time when the boy volunteered to prepare the ink. Maeglin could still remember the urge that suddenly shook him: he watched those well-groomed hands and decided that he could not risk seeing them stained. 

He would notice himself smiling absurdly as another attempt to remove the ink residue from under his fingernails proved futile. And knew that Ecthelion waited for him to help him with the black smudges left on his pale back by some desperate fingers. 

Which incense has Ecthelion chosen for today? Is his study filled with a scent of white lotus or patchouli, or did he go for sandalwood that Maeglin usually picked for their evenings? When Glorfindel next pays a visit to finish the game left untouched on the checkerboard in the front room, the joss sticks will serve them as timers when the moves begin to require too much pondering; Maeglin thinks back to the night when they burnt incense of the highest quality, and it took the flame a little eternity to consume the stick - the time in which he was supposed to handle being given the most intense pleasure. He remembers the ash falling onto his trembling hand as he held the thin end, his eyes fixed on the red spot in which the incense burned. 

This he will miss here in the woods, where his hair grows to smell of humid air and pines, not burnt spices. For this he will come back when the thaw comes and the cereal rises. 

Thinking that what Ecthelion slid into his pouch was sweets or dried fruit for the road, Maeglin reaches for the small packet when hunger starts to bother him a little. But as he unwraps the layers of coloured tissue, he senses a familiar shape and smell of a herb-scented ink stick.

He has no brush or paper at hand, but as he squats by the creek, he splashes water onto a flat stone and begins to steadily grind the stick against its smooth surface. All that just to stain his hands, let the ink sit under his fingernails until he gets used to missing _him_ again.

  
  



End file.
